


Open Road

by SilentCalling



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 90s, Alternate Canon, Angst, Australia, Banter, Canon Het Relationship, Canon Related, Canon Relationships, Cliche, Discovery, F/M, Fanfiction, Fix-It, Fluff, Flying Cars, Gen, Good times, Great Ocean Road, Hurt/Comfort, Identity, Love, Plot Twists, Road Trips, Teenagers, Tropes, With A Twist, and stuff, cute friendship stuff, cuties being cute, just some fun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2019-06-10 19:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15298440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentCalling/pseuds/SilentCalling
Summary: Two weeks, a stolen car, and four enemies. What could possibly go wrong?Draco Malfoy is sick of the war and all that it stands for. He's sick of the blood, the death, and the Death Eater stain that taints him as a traitor.The solution is simple - he needs a holiday. A road trip across the south coast of Australia - all expenses paid by Minerva McGonagall herself - should do the trick. But there's one issue. The only flight available comes with the condition that he shares the trip with the Golden Trio, being thrown into their problems in the blink of an eye.At least it's preferable to spending the summer alone...right?





	1. Musings of a Malfoy

____________________

Dreams- the recluse of the mind,

The terror of the daytime,

The whispers in the wind.

____________________

  
  
  
_The air was cold and biting against my skin, my feet burning as I pounded the cobbles. Where was I? The corridor was foreign, dark, and overwhelming as my mind churned in circles. A scream from the left._ Who was that? Were they after me? Where was there to run?  


_I could feel my dark mark burning every time my robes brushed it. I shuddered, the cold air cutting through my robes. It was cold, but my hand was covered in sweat, my wand hanging on for dear life as I flew down corridor after corridor._  


_I paused, and they were upon me. Faces that were garishly distorted by tattoos, the marks of magical accidents, and sadistic grins. Wands probing at my face, my hands, the dark mark that lay dormant on my forearm. The manic laughs of my aunt, the pleading of my mother, the screams of the students being tortured down the hall._  


_My father loomed over me last, his mask not covering the Malfoy mannerisms that were all too familiar. "Disappointment," his words stung like venom. I tried to cover my face, my hands failing me more and more each second. I screamed, the sound wrecking my lungs._  


_"Draco Malfoy!" he taunted, pushing me to the side, stepping on my wand._

_"Draco Malfoy," Aunt Bellatrix repeats, her voice as hard and poisonous as an acidic gum drop._

_The chant grows, becoming louder, and crueller, as I feel the sharp pinch of a wand below my rib cage. That's it. It's over._  


"Draco Malfoy!" the voice is sterner and tinged with Scottish agitation. I blink, my vision of the offender obscured by tears. I glance at the window. The sun is already pushing itself through the heavy drapes that obscure the tower from the early morning light. Damnit, I'm late.  


"You need to get up now," McGonagall's voice has softened since spotting my tears. Disgusting. I hate sympathy. I try to adjust to the light as she moves over to my beside table that groans with the weight of my textbooks.

"I've got your books for you. You missed breakfast, but I'm sure that the house elves will fetch you something if you need it," she's in full administrative mode, now. "I'll see you in class, Mr Malfoy."  


Finally, she's gone. I hate the nightmares, but I hate the sympathy more. I would never have invoked such a soft temper from the Scottish Dragon if not for my 'unfortunate past'. I'm being treated better than  _Potter_  at this point, and that's saying something, considering that he was literally resurrected from the dead. I've had people at my every beck and call, asking if I'm hungry, thirsty, or comfortable enough. Oh no, now that I'm a  _war veteran_  these classroom seats are  _much_  too uncomfortable to sit on. How stupid.   


I manage to rouse myself and shower quickly, making sure all evidence of nightmares has been washed away before walking through the rubble to Transfiguration. The dust catches on my robes, but for some reason, it feels almost the same as any other day at Hogwarts. That is, without my fellow Slytherins and a significantly smaller number of students.   


I'm the only Slytherin student who stayed after the war. Most of the families connected with the house had fled to the south after facing criminal charges or worse, terrified at the thought of their children being close to the all-powerful Golden Trio. Those students who hadn't died or been recruited to Voldemort's ranks had disappeared in a puff of smoke, leaving rows upon rows of empty beds in the Slytherin dorms, empty places in the common room. I have been housed in a spare teacher's flat on the second floor and given a pity invitation to the other houses' common rooms and parties. I've never gone.   


The Transfiguration room is filled with younger faces, all quiet and unassuming as they write a theory paper. McGonagall nods in acknowledgement as I take a seat at the back of the room and open the textbook I have been given. With so few students, composite classes have been the only option. I can see some third-years smirking at me a few rows ahead. Oh, if only you had known the old Draco Malfoy.  _He_  would have shut you up in a second.   


I can spot Potter and his cronies easily from the amount of noise they attract. No matter how broken the wizarding community are, they seem to always find enough time to harass Harry Potter, and as of late, Weasley and Granger as well. Chattering, declarations of love, and autographs have become part of the background noise here, strangely enough. I almost feel sorry for Potter. _Almost._    


The class finishes, and I slip away as soon as we are dismissed, taking efforts to blend into the crowd. I'm just beginning to open my (very informative) book on the benefits of magical remedies when Potter interrupts me.

"Get your head out of that book Malfoy."

Damnit, I forgot that blending in doesn't work when everyone else is substantially shorter than you. Also, why the hell does he care in the first place?

I put on my best Malfoy sarcasm. "Tell that to Granger. You're the one interrupting  _my_  study."

Weasley sighs. I hadn't even noticed he was there. "We're just trying to invite you to lunch, mate. Be civil for once, won't you?"

I groan. “Civility is a dying art in this political climate, Weasel.” Weasley, the next Mother Theresa. I’m about to politely decline when I see the look on Granger’s face. Nobody messes around with Granger when she wants something, and for some reason she wants this. Huh, the girls have always liked me. It’s not like I have anything better to do. "Okay, I don't see why not."

Weasley and Granger look like they've just been shot. Maybe I was wrong about Granger. Potter grins. "Well, we're going now, if you're joining us."

I fall into line with the Trio, ignoring the shocked looks that follow me. For the umpteenth time since the war ended, I tell myself not to care.   


One of those moments stands out in my memory - cursed to feature in every part of my nightmares. Waking, however is worse.  _When has a simple invitation to lunch become the trigger to another painful memory?_

My father's face was unassuming as I sat in that courtroom. He was wearing the Malfoy mask - the perfect mixture of cold confidence, arrogance, and lack of expression. My mother had been the complete opposite - her fingernails digging deep enough into my arm to draw blood, her eyes shot with worry and fear. She knew as well as I did that our lives would never be the same.

 

The sentence had been no surprise. From then onwards I was to see my father only during visiting hours - for the rest of his life. The traitor was gone, but so was our security, our reputation, our name and our lifeblood. 

Potter snaps me out of my reverie with a sickly, kind smile. "Food's out, Malfoy." Weasley states the obvious with a mouthful of various dishes. It takes all my willpower to not scoff in disgust. I may have lived with Weasley for almost seven years now, but that sight is not one you can get used to, even from across the Great Hall. I sit down and ladle a decent portion onto my plate. I never bothered contacting the house elves for breakfast, and I'm starving.

 

I'm surprised to notice that the Golden Trio talk about normal things like Quidditch and holidays. It's none of the mumbo-jumbo I expected them to chat about, that's for sure. The war had never been a popular conversation choice, but Potter had always droned on about it in that self-righteous voice of his. Now, I surprise myself by having a say in most of the subjects that arise. Sure, I don't really want to hear about Potter's disastrous love life or the strange spot on Granger's back, but I  _can_ weigh in an opinion about this year's Quidditch season or take sides on the best drink at the Three Broomsticks. The whole meal seemed so  _normal_. I must be having another fever dream. Yes, that’s it.

 

The walk to my next class feels strangely solitary as I leave the Great Hall. Potter had offered to tag along with me to the next class, but Granger had been fast to remind him of another War Council meeting they had to attend, and Potter had politely excused himself.  _At least Potty has some manners._

 

I can't help the immature thoughts. They are as ingrained into me as Malfoy pride, and that is a serious comparison. In every moment since I met him, something inside of me itches to call out something juvenile and insulting. It's a reflex, I suppose. I've always considered myself a habitual creature.

 

The heavy door of the Arithmancy wing looms ahead, crowded by a gaggle of fifth years. All Ravenclaws, it seems. No, wait, there's two older Hufflepuffs, sticking out like sore thumbs amongst the unofficial Ravenclaw 'uniform' – the Ravens’ immaculate robes, not a hair out of place, with noses that suggest the superiority of those who have access to knowledge. Ugh. 

 

I sigh as one of the Hufflepuffs approaches me, a nasty wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. Justin Finch-Fletchley. His gait suggests that another stupid thing is going to come out of his mouth. 

"Weren't you changing electives, Malfoy?" he inquires, spitting the words like venom. Trust a boy like him to make a simple question into a threat. 

"Well, I was going to..." I drawl, moulding my face into something nonplussed. "...But you know what it's like these days."

Finch-Fletchley makes an unflattering noise that I think is supposed to be a growl. Hufflepuffs never did really gain the aggression necessary for the war. I turn away, rolling my eyes slightly as I march into the room behind the younger students. Who would've thought I'd see the day when Fletchley had snark?

 

The class is dull, full of more brainless idiots and anti-Malfoy sentiment. The new Arithmancy teacher, Mr Reynard, is a tiny, stuttering fool who blames his incompetence on his interrupted education during a wizarding war not even Hermione has heard about. The first time we heard _that_ one there were eyebrows raised. The man would be more sympathetic if he had really experienced what he claimed. But no, a panic attack due to post-traumatic stress apparently still merits a loss of house points. I chuckled when that happened to me. I don't think he realises that I'm the only one wearing [metaphorical] Slytherin robes. I don’t have a chance of winning the House Cup.

 

That was one good thing about being accepted to an eighth year, at least. The house system is milder now - still there but much more flexible. I seem to be one of the few students that accepted the change wholeheartedly. I never wear my Slytherin robes except for the beginning and end of year assemblies, and frankly, I'm more than happy with it. Who wants to walk around wearing the robes of an obsolete house like a sad old man trying to relieve 'the good old days'? Ha, no. I have already seen too much of that in the Black family line. 

 

Reynard clears his throat loudly. It's an ungainly, grating sound, and for some short moment I fear for the man's health. "Malfoy, did you hear what I said?" his take on an authoritative tone is almost amusing. 

"No, I did not," I can't be bothered to be polite. 

"Professor McGonagall wants to see you in her office. Immediately."

I heave myself out of my chair, wincing as the scar across my chest pulls. I wave indiscriminately to the class, hastening towards the door. I hardly enjoy McGonagall's little heart-to-hearts, but it's a short period of time away from another fool, and that's worth something.

 

The hallways are so empty, so quiet. No one bothers to skip class to meet in the hallways anymore. We're all so boring, so lifeless since the war. Even the little first years are slumped, whispering in the corridors about politics and other serious things. 

 

McGonagall sits in what will always be Dumbledore's office, her mouth pulled into a tight smile. It's an alien sight, that woman smiling at someone who's not a Gryffindor. Her fingers drum on the tome in front of her as she invites me to sit across from her, in the good chair. I'm an adult now, it seems. 

"I've solved your problem, Draco," she starts, her eyes sparkling girlishly.

"What problem?" I bluff.

She glares at me over her spectacles. "You know what. Your general... adverse nature to the world."

"Excuse m-" I splutter.

"Do you want to hear it, or not?" she cuts me off. For a split second, I'm a first year again.

"Yes ma'am," I subdue myself.

"The cure is a road trip with Potter."


	2. Another Annoyance

 

  
____________________

Am I safe here?

Sometimes it feels like

I was never here in the first place.

____________________

 

A moment of thick, dusty silence hangs in the room. My mind is swimming, but I surface for a brief second. If I don't speak, she will. "What's a road trip?"

McGonagall snorts. "Oh, you precious pureblooded boy. Do you even know what a road is?"

"I do, thank you very much. I just don't see the allure of taking a trip down one," I reply haughtily. 

"There are longer roads than Knockturn Alley, Draco," she chastises. There's a hint of a smile in her tone, somewhere. 

"Tell me about it, then," I snap.

 

"Since you asked so nicely, Mr Malfoy, I will," she rolls her eyes, a strange look on a woman her age. "A road trip is when a group of people travel to a particular place using a car, stopping at certain places along the way. It’s… for enjoyment."

"I don't see the point," I whine. I know I'm being childish, but my distaste is something that’s all too difficult to manage at this point.

""The point is some fresh air, friendship, and a holiday,” she says crisply.

“But why with _Potter_?”

She sighs. “I would say inter-house unity, but frankly, it’s convenience. Potter came in and told me this morning that he was looking for someone to join him on his upcoming trip, and I thought that some sea air could do you some good.”

“ _Pleasant_ sea air? In _Scotland_ , at this time of year?” Potter must be truly bonkers.

A chuckle spills from her mouth. “Definitely not.” The snowy scene outside the window only proves her point. “They’re going to Australia. It’s a lot sunnier at this time of year.”

I gather up my robes and prepare to leave the room, manners be damned. “I’m not travelling halfway around the world with a bunch of most likely delusional wizards and witches only in order to get eaten by a giant spider,” I reply curtly.

 

McGonagall stops me with a pointed cough. “It’s time I told you the truth,” she says with a sigh.

“What truth? I’m _more_ than sick of secrets at this stage!” It’s an overreaction, but it seems that everything has been hidden since the start of the war.

She pinches the bridge of her nose with a sigh. “There’s a hateful group that is currently trying to round up former Death Eaters and lackeys of Voldemort in order to make a public example of them.”

I sit back down, back stiff with fear. “In what way?”

“Execution, torture, and public spectacle,” she swallows. “It’s best that you stay well away from it.”

 

My mind has stopped. “What about my parents, the other decent people who were led astray?”

“They don’t care about affiliation. I wish I could protect those in the same boat as you, but as the Headmistress of Hogwarts, I have no way of protecting them. The Ministry is doing all that they can to protect those who have been pardoned, but they’ve left _me_ to protect _you_. I’m convinced this is the best option.”

I put on the mask of calm, the one that is worn from the past few years of use. “Very well, then. I’ll go.” McGonagall’s face relaxes. “But I have one more question.”

“Yes?”

“Why are the others going?”

“You’re not the only one who gets targeted. Now, you better get to your next class.” She nods, walking to the door. That’s it. Time for a road trip.

 

I’m only halfway to the Potions room when Potter pulls me into a corner. “So, are you coming with us?” he whispers. Apparently, this is a huge secret.

“Yes, I am,” I reply. “Now, please let me get to Potions.”

Potter lets go of me, chuckling at the strangeness of the situation. “Have fun in class.”

“You too,” I manage as I run down the hallway. It doesn’t matter who teaches Potions – being late is a crime punishable by the reduction of points from my non-existent house.

 

The Potions classroom still smells of Snape, even though he’s been dead for more than a year now. It smells of aftershave and lionfish spines, with a tinge of sweat, rotting onions, and experiments gone wrong. Most people would consider it pungent, but it reminds me of the glory days of Slytherin before the deception of the war. Still, the classroom now holds traces of the sickly-sweet perfume of the new teacher, a deceptively gentle-looking witch with round glasses and a cutting wit. Everyone tells me that she was in Slytherin once. I believe them.

 

She grimaces at me when I walk in. “Malfoy, you’re late.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m aware of that, ma’am.” I promised myself when I got reaccepted to Hogwarts that I would stop talking back to teachers, but I can’t help myself - old habits die hard. I take a place behind a bench. The third-year Hufflepuff next to me shrinks back a little.

“As I was saying,” the woman glares at me. “Today we will be revising the Wiggenweld Potion. Please collect your ingredients from the storeroom and follow the procedure in the third-year textbook. Remember to step away from the cauldron when stirring.”

 

I sigh and prepare for the worst. Despite the warning, I can almost guarantee that there are going to be a few second-years leaving with messy robes.

“Go and find the lower-grade ingredients,” I instruct my bench partner. I don’t want this being any harder than it has to be. “I’ll collect the rest.”

 

The ingredients move under my hands almost automatically, a process as natural as breathing. Father had always argued that I was a better negotiator than a potion maker, but I begged to differ. The sheer order, the formulaic nature of potions, always gave my mind an excuse to be still for a brief moment. My own brief moment is interrupted by a yelp of pain from my bench partner.

 

He is standing next to the cauldron, his robes spattered with the remnants of our potion, clutching his hand and whimpering. “Let me look,” I demand. Potions injuries are no joke. I still have the scar from one my father ignored when I was seven. The Hufflepuff thrusts his hand towards me. The flesh is red and inflamed, a wicked burn with irregular edges. The boy looks at me bravely, but I’m no fool – I see the tears welling in his eyes.

“A bad burn, that’s all,” I explain. “Nothing magical. What were you doing, anyway?”

“Tilting the cauldron to check the consistency,” he sighs. “It’s stupid, I know. I should have stirred or used pot holders.”

At least the boy is self-aware. His attitude is so similar to that of my younger self that there’s only one response I can muster up.

“Here, I’ll take you to the Infirmary.” I lead him towards the door. “Keep that elevated, hear?”

 

“Where are you going, Mr Malfoy?” the professor laces her voice with warning in a way professors must be taught in university.

“Didn’t you hear him before?” I gesture to my bench partner. “He’s got a nasty burn. I’m taking him to the Infirmary.”

The room goes silent. Evidently this is the biggest display of compassion that most of them have seen from me.

The professor swallows. “That’s one less thing for me to do. Go on.” She marks both of our robes with the tell-tale sign that signifies a hall pass.

 

The halls are empty, thank goodness. It wouldn’t do for anyone else to see a Malfoy so soft. What was left of my family’s reputation mostly perished with the war, but I like to pretend that people still care. The boy is still whimpering as I stride through the corridors, taking the quickest route to the Infirmary. All too suddenly I realise that I’ve missed a vital piece of information. “What’s your name?” I ask sharply.

“Trevor Gobbles, sir,” the boy replies.

I laugh. “Sir? _I wish_. Malfoy will do.”

 

We walk in silence until we are interrupted by a loud set of leather shoes. The clack is annoyingly familiar. Granger’s face is suddenly too close to mine in a way that is award-winningly uncomfortable.

“What are you doing with Trevor, Malfoy?”

I nearly laugh in her face. “Introducing him to the magical world of the Death Eaters,” the sarcasm drips out of my mouth. “What do you _think_ , Granger? Can’t you see that big red mark on his hand?”

Granger sighs. “What did you do?”

“He spilt a potion on himself. I’m being a good human being. So, excuse me, please.”

Granger laughs, a little tinkling thing that contrasts sharply with everything I know about her. “I’m terribly sorry, Malfoy. Old habits die hard.”

“Death Eaters do, too,” I chuckle. Oops. Maybe _that_ wasn’t exactly socially acceptable.

She lets out another laugh, this time colourless and without humour. “I guess so.” She coughs and turns away. “Um, I’ll be going then.”

I supress a grin as the sound of her shoes disappear around the corner. Gobbles is wheezing. “That’s…the funniest…thing I’ve seen…all…day.”

I can’t help a chuckle of my own escaping. “Come on now, don’t hyperventilate.”

 

The rest of the trip is painless, and before I know it I’m back in the Potions classroom, reviewing my notes in the last few minutes before the bell. The avoidance of another potion revision session is an unexpected bonus to the poor kid’s injury, it seems. It’s only a few more minutes until the end of classes for the day, and a few blissful hours of free time. I can’t wait.

 

The bell tolls in its slow, ancient way, and I barely contain myself as I practically fly up the stairs to my room. An owl arrived carrying my new broom during Potions, and I have craved the bite of fresh air on my tongue and in my hair since the day my broom got destroyed in a fire during the Battle of Hogwarts. Better yet, this broom is the first thing I bought of my own accord, and I’ll be damned if I wait a minute longer to try it out.

 

I bowl past a few first-years before I make it to my room, where I bundle on several layers of clothes. Even the excitement of a new broom doesn’t override the principle of layering clothes that was ingrained into me from a young age. _Flying is fun, frostbite is not._

 

The package is next to the window as I expected, its brown paper practically a beacon to my eager eyes. I reach it rather awkwardly, my arms moving differently due to the weight of clothes. I take a second to inhale the earthy, magical smell of broom packages before tearing into it like a child on Christmas Day. The rough paper gives way to cherry varnish smoothness. Perfect, untouched, silver bristles grace the end of the slim handle that manages to compliment the latest broom fashions as well as working with flying technique. I _love_ it.

 

I race out to Quidditch pitch, the burnt flags hardly noticeable as I rush to mount the broom. A few words of wandless magic, and I’m soaring, wind tousling my hair as the cold begins to tug on my lungs. The Quidditch pitch is left behind as I soar upwards, heading straight for the clouds as I stare upwards into the white sky. My troubles vanish with the spires of Hogwarts.

 

It’s pristine and infinite up here, where the sky is boundless and wide. The thrill of flying fills my body until everything else is removed. I missed this so very much. I dive suddenly, swooping above the bare peaks of the mountains, over the grey fjord that snakes to the sea. The dull day improves substantially as I fly over the Forbidden Forest, over the evergreens, out to the fields, and across the train tracks. The wind freezes my mind and my body; I don’t mind at all.

 

My body aches deliciously when I return, my face red and lit up with elation. I place the broom in the close-to-empty Slytherin broom shed, hanging it on the hook under the golden plaque that reads ‘Malfoy’. The places above and below, ‘Greengrass, D’, and ‘Zabini’ are empty. I hurry out of the shed before I can dwell on it. If I concentrate, I can imagine that it’s the hols and I’ve decided to stay at Hogwarts to study. Yes, that’s what I can tell myself.

 

I collapse into my bed a few hours later, having breezed through study hall and a solitary evening meal. The pillowy down soothes me as I fall asleep instantly for the first time in two years.


	3. Yearning

____________________

Night,

The mistress of dreams

Takes no prisoners.

____________________

 

The moon is like a spotlight when I wake up, peering inquisitively through the heavy drapes and stinging my eyes. I groan as I pad over to the door, where a constant knocking pecks at the wood. I fiddle with the catch, swinging the door open as I manage to fix up my pyjama shirt.

 

Granger is the most worried I’ve seen her since OWLs, her eyes frantic and wild, clothes mismatched and dishevelled in a way that concerns me. Not-a-hair-out-of-place (although that’s not the best analogy) Granger is frazzled and standing at my doorstep with wild eyes and a suspiciously heavy-looking beaded purse.

“Get your things, Malfoy,” her voice is still thick with sleep.

“Huh?” Obviously, I’m not quite awake yet, either.

“There’s been an attack on some old sympathisers in Hogsmeade. We need to leave tonight.”

I don’t waste a second of time. I throw myself towards my wardrobe, pulling out a few items of clothing and pushing them into the terrible rucksack that Blaise gave me as a gag gift last Halloween. “Where am I meeting you?”

“The courtyard just beyond your tower. Stay hidden, and pack only what is absolutely necessary.” She looks at me with a strange emotion in her eyes…loyalty? “I’ll see you there.”

The door creaks. She’s gone.

 

I discard half of the clothes I packed, settling for two shirts, a pair of trousers and underwear. I pull on layer after layer while I hop around the room trying to pack everything I need. Even when packing minimally, there are some things I can’t leave behind. To the bathroom – a bag full of toiletries still together from the whirlwind days of Voldemort’s final attacks. Finally, I clasp the letters from my mother, a locket from Pansy, a photo of the Slytherin crew, and my father’s end-of-OWLs gift – a silver letter opener with a snake curled around the top – in my hand, placing them in the front pocket. I tuck my wand into the wand-holster underneath my shirt and pull a woollen cloak around my shoulders. Done.

 

The corridors freeze my lungs as I duck through the shadows to the sheltered courtyard, a forgotten little place crawling with years of failed Hufflepuff plant husbandry assignments. I make a note to avoid the Devil’s Snare as I survey the area for a giveaway movement. The Trio have gotten good at this hiding thing over the years, it seems. A flash of magic catches my eye. A notice-me-not charm, I think. At least now I can see them.

 

“Potter, Granger, Weasley, you really are terrible at-” the words die in my throat. A leering face stares at me from the southward wall. The masked figure wields his wand like a flaming torch, and I barely notice as my feet carry me further away from him.

“Don’t… move… a muscle.” Cold breath falls on my ear as I feel the stab of a wand between my shoulder blades. I shudder but keep still. These people may claim to be with Dumbledore, but their tactics are nothing different than what I’ve known. The message is nonverbal but clear as a shout – I move, I die.

 

“Draco Malfoy, huh? Just the boy we were looking for. Saved us a bit of time, you did,” the one across the courtyard punctuates his sentence with a filthy smirk.

“What were you going to do, murder me in my sleep?” It’s a stupid remark, but I can’t help it. The one holding me hostage hasn’t done anything yet. Fear is their only weapon at present.

“Not exactly, but close enough.” He stares into my face with a look that I’ve seen a thousand times. Greed. “He’ll be good for research, I think, Georgie,” he calls to the man behind my back. I hear a snicker as a reply. Honestly, what kind of script are they following here? My father would’ve fired the playwright.

“Got anyone with you?” the voice from behind me presses.

“No, I couldn’t sleep,” I force my voice into casual complacency. It’s all I can do for the others. I may not like them, but in situations like this, it’s dog-eat-dog.

“With a rucksack?” they chorus.

Damn.

“Collecting Potions ingredients from the Forbidden Forest. I find a little extra work aids the quality of sleep in an impressive way,” I continue the lie almost flawlessly.

 

“Sounds like something a git like you would do,” the man across from me shrugs. “Now come with us or we’ll hurt you.”

The script just got worse.

“ _Stupefy!_ ” three voices chant from a wall planted with climbers. _About time!_

 

I waste no time walking over to the wall where a basic camouflage spell has been employed. I meet the relieved faces of the three Gryffindors all too suddenly, almost falling over in shock.

“What on earth were you doing in the last few minutes?” The annoyance slides into my tone naturally. “I nearly got taken by them!”

“We had to wait for the best time to strike,” Potter pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, Draco.”

An accident, then. Still, the apology could do with some work.

“Let’s not waste time chatting,” Weasley’s voice trembles with childish worry. He coughs. “I mean, we don’t know when they’ll wake up, and we don’t know if they have backup. I just thought-”

“Exactly,” Granger redeems him.

 

Potter waves his wand as if he were a conductor and a car appears, its maroon bumper bar rusty and dented. The upholstery is mid-1950’s Muggle, based on the two years of compulsory Muggle Studies I was forced to take, and I know it in an instant – there is _no_ way that I’m getting in that car, especially with Weasley driving.

“Oh, oh, no. No thank you,” I make sure to verbalise the thought.

“McGonagall did tell you what a road trip entailed, did she not?” Granger shakes her head.

“Of course,” I snap. “But Weasley’s driving record isn’t exactly pristine. Do _none_ of you remember what happened Second Year?”

Weasley is more than a little annoyed. “That was Second Year, mate. My voice hadn’t even broken, for Merlin’s sake! I’ve gotten better since then.”

I can’t help it. “Not going to crash into any trees now, are you? Not planning to get run over by the Hogwarts Express?”

“Oh, bugger off,” Granger mutters. “We need to go. Get in the car.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Such language, Saint Granger.”

 

Potter takes the passenger seat without another word.

“You’re coming with us, whether you like it or not,” Granger sighs. “Come on. We owe it to McGonagall.”

Weasley grunts and slides into the driver’s seat. There’s nothing else I can do. McGonagall’s right – I have to go.

 

I place my rucksack in the boot and slide into the back seat next to Granger. “How will this thing get us to Australia, anyway?”

I can see Weasley smirking in the rearview mirror. “You know what happened in Second Year, Malfoy. You tell me.”

 

With a sudden lurch, we’re flying.

 

It’s been two hours of Celestina Warbeck over Scottish countryside when I have to put my foot down. “If I’m in this car, I’ll be listening to better music than _this_ , _thank_ you very much.”

“Why, this is the finest in all the land, sire,” Harry drawls.

“Uncultured swine,” I say under my breath.

“Celestina Warbeck’s a musical genius!” Weasley grins.

“Oh, shut up Weasel, you know you hate as much as I do,” I retort.

Silence fills the car.

“So, what do you think of Ferrik’s Giant Ballads?” Potter asks.

“No!”

 

It’s been two hours of constant fighting over music choice when the car takes a sudden dive to the ground. Weasley swears under his breath and swerves the car to the right.

“Of course, we forgot to get fuel,” Potter groans. “Heading to the nearest petrol station, Ron?”

Weasley nods and puts an uncanny amount of effort into landing the car. We land a few kilometres out of a small muggle town, on a potholed road that smells of sheep even from inside the vehicle. Weasley sighs in relief, disabling all the unique features of the car so that it appears nothing more than the old clunking thing that it originally was.

 

The town is almost quaint – a bedraggled mixture of old stone houses and new brick ones built in a style that seems contrary to anything in British architecture trends. The roads are a patchwork of cobbles, bitumen, and dirt, and the shops are all small and mostly closed.

“Oh, blast. It’s Sunday, isn’t it?” Granger asks.

Potter groans in response. “Let’s just hope that this place is big enough to have a petrol station open on Sundays. We’ll try our luck.”

 

We wheel down the deserted roads, heading towards the source of noise – a little chapel at the end of the main street. Chattering Muggles pour out of the entrance of the tiny village church, dressed to the nines in an array of colours that make my eyes hurt. Weasley swerves past them to a large sign that reads ‘BP’. I sigh in relief. At least there’s _something_ here.

 

The place is open, thankfully, and Potter goes to fill up the car, insisting that his muggle knowledge and charm will get him a better price, or at least save us from embarrassment. I hardly want to comply to his ego, but I have to admit that he’s the best prepared to accomplish the simple task. Weasley may be the driver, but I have a growing suspicion that the car is his father’s, and that was the only reason he was selected in the first place.  

 

I quickly decide to stretch my legs, calling out to the other vaguely that I’m going for a walk. I wander past the church, where the parishioners have spilled out onto the patch of lawn beside the church, chatting in groups while others circle around in cars waiting for their families. It’s a jovial scene – with one glaring spot on the façade of togetherness.

 

A woman stands on the outer of one of the circles, excluded. Her stance is defensive, yet in a way waiting, expectant. Her back is half turned to the others, her eyes drifting every now and then to the tiny graveyard just to her right. Two years ago, I would’ve thought _strange_. Now my senses are screaming _up to no good_. There’s something off about her, and I can’t quite place it.

 

I find myself itching to call out for the others. Despite my several years cohabitating with the Dark Lord himself, I have comparatively little to the Trio in terms of fighting discipline and tactical work. I’m 80% show and 20% skill. However, the distance is too great, anything I could say would sound suspicious. We’re going to have to figure out a system for communication later.

 

The woman inches closer, her breath stale and cold as she moves. It’s strange - I can sense it even from a few metres away. In a split second, I know the word for her.

 

I cast a quick glamour for the Muggles, but I know that she’ll be able to see me. I don’t mind, honestly. I’ve seen enough of these creatures to last a lifetime and a half and have a few hints on how to deal with them.

 

In a split second the woman grins, her face splitting apart to reveal a gaping, open black hole where her mouth should have been. “Draco…Malfoy…” The words come out in a hiss as they disappear into the air. The parishioners have disappeared.

 

The woman’s – woman, if I can even call her that, mouth is still moving, but not emitting any sound. I listen again, wand at the ready. No, it’s a name she’s chanting with a gradual increase in volume and it’s not mine.

“Harry Potter…”

“Harry Potter…”

“ _Harry Potter!_ ”

 

The chant chills me to the bone and I immediately spew a litany of spells that are useless in a situation like this. Damn, I’ve never been good under pressure. She’s getting closer, her small beady eyes blackening, her skin crumbling like paper, revealing scales underneath.

“Where is he, small Malfoy? Tell me!” her voice reaches a sickening crescendo as I realise that she can’t see, only sense. Somehow, she must have known that Potter was with me.

“I don’t know!” I fire a useless _Incendio_. It renders her immobile for a split second before her scaly arms reach my prostrate form.

“Liar!” Her crow echoes through the streets, and before I can fight her, her arms are wrapped around my throat.

 

“Tell me,” she cackles. “I’m not afraid of killing another Malfoy.”


	4. Bubble and Broil

____________________

The fault of treachery

Mars not skin,

But loyalty

____________________

 

 

I soon lose count of the hours it feels like the woman has held me for, as I fumble for my wand and make gasping noises like some kind of muggle fish. It’s pathetic, and for an endless stretch of time I wrack my brain for all I ever learned about these creatures, wishing that I had paid more attention in class.

 

My father’s voice comes to me unexpectedly after I first start losing oxygen, his smooth accent a contrast to the muddle of thoughts that clutter my head. “A well-placed ice spell is one of only two things that will defeat a sapanna, as well as the killing curse, which is highly illegal. Aim for its torso area, the least protected part of the creature. Then you’ll be able to defeat it.”

 

What my father lacked in physical support in the most difficult of times seems to have paid off now. I wrestle my wand arm away from the creature for a second, angling my arm so that when the creature reattaches I will be perfectly positioned. I purse my lips and imagine icicles, a winter wonderland that I haven’t seen since I was a child. My Dark Mark scar throbs. The incantation burns through my body in the way that only wandless magic does, and before I know it I’m on the ground, panting as I force my body to stand up and run back to the relative safety of the car. My lungs cry out with the recent change of oxygen, but I’m not going to give into their petty demands right now. Now, I need to go and tell the strangest tale the three do-gooders have heard all day. They’ll probably be jealous that I got to fight the first opponent on this little holiday.

 

When I return, the three haven’t even noticed the whole escapade – fully seated in the flying car, chatting impatiently as if _I_ was the one to inconvenience _them._

“Hurry up, Malfoy,” Potter grumbles.

“Where have you been?” Granger adds. Weasley doesn’t say anything, but his body language is laughably easy to read – he’s not impressed, either.

“Fighting a sapanna,” I bite back, swinging into the car and forcing my gaze out the window. They can look changed all they want, but at their roots, they will still be the spoilt, scruffy souls that I met in my first weeks at Hogwarts.

 

An awkward silence hangs in the air for what feels like a half-hour, until Potter clears his throat. It’s immediately clear that he, the Boy Wonder, is foreign to apologies. I’m waiting for Granger to flick in and save him with an impersonal statement, so I’m surprised when Potter saves himself.

“I’m sorry, Draco. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.” The apology comes out sincere and relatively eloquently, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed. Weasley and Granger follow with nods that bob almost comically.

“It’s okay. Apology accepted.” I’m not entirely sure how to respond correctly. This new bout of kindness from them has stumped me recently, and it seems that I’m not getting any better at dealing with it.

“But why was it there?” Potter’s talking to himself in that odd way that I’ve heard countless times in lessons, as if he’s preaching something private.

“Why do you think?” I laugh. “It was after you. Everyone’s dying to get their hands on the Boy Who Lived!”

“You call me the Boy Who Lived?” Potter spluttered. “How precious!”

So, it’s going to be one of _those_ friendships, then, that flit between banter, insults, and sincerity. I once heard that Potter was to be in Slytherin, but I never believed it until now.

“I heard in the papers, that’s all. Is that what you call yourself in the mirror?” I retort. Two can play at this game.

 

“Stop it, you two,” Granger tuts. She’s the mother hen,  then. “We’re trying to get information!”

“I thought it might be you,” Potter snaps back into the conversation at hand. “Maybe those vigilantes after us are looking for new recruits.”

The laugh rises like acid in my throat. It’s not like I haven’t heard _that_ one before.

“That was a bit rude, Harry.” Weasley’s slow baritone does something I never thought I’d hear it do – defend a Malfoy.

Potter is chastised, his head hanging low again. “Yeah, that was out of line. Sorry again, Malfoy.”

“Thank you.” The reply comes out correctly this time, smooth and cultured, without the addition of insincerity that usually graces the phrase. “And for your information, it said _your_ name. It was asking where you were and wasn’t afraid to kill me to find out.”

Granger’s face is pulled tight. “Did it know who you were? The Black and Malfoy names are usually an antidote for most kinds of dark creatures.”

“They _were_ antidotes. But after the war, not so much. Besides, half of the forbidding members of the Black and Malfoy houses are no longer…” -there’s no polite way to put it- “…in action.”

“Good point.” Granger’s brain is already on the next problem.

“Then who was it working for?” Weasley’s thinking out loud. With a chuckle, I realise that we’re still in the petrol station.

“Just drive, or we’ll get run out of this place,” Granger laughs at Weasley. “We can think on the way.”

“Right.” Weasley blushes and puts the car into gear.

 

“Who _was_ she was working for, then?” Potter continues the conversation in his strange, brooding way.

“Hopefully herself,” I sigh.

“You do have quite a bit of fame and fortune, Harry,” Granger agrees. “A lot of people would kill to have what you have - even your power is a monopoly.”

“As long as we don’t have to repeat our sixth year again,” Weasley shakes his head. For a moment Potter and Granger stare off into the distance, eyes full of unreadable memories.

Potter flattens his mouth into a line. “We won’t. We’ll be fine.”

My scar still throbs. _Not the first Malfoy._ I fix my eyes on the horizon and remove it from my mind.

 

It’s relatively quiet as we make our way to the next deserted spot, Weasley itching to get the car in the air again. Everyone seems to have drifted into their own little worlds, Potter tapping his wand against the back seat, Granger with her nose buried in a book, Weasley with his eyes on the road, scouting potential sites for a mysterious disappearance. No one ever told us Purebloods that working with the Muggle world would be so difficult.

 

I’m not sure what to do with myself as I sit ramrod straight for the next few minutes, feigning interest in the blanket of green grass and cows that is rural Scotland as I look out the window. None of the car’s occupants seem game for a conversation, and I’m not sure what I’d talk about, anyway. Australia is a two-hour portkey journey, isn’t it? I am _not_ looking forward to that.

 

My dislike for silence and waiting is almost as strong as that I held in Third Year towards Potter. With every passing second, I’m wishing that I brought a decent book. I turn to hear a mumble in my direction. Potter has moved on from the mindless tapping, and now has a strange contraption in his hand – a sort of box connected to a wire and a curved piece of plastic. He’s offering it to me, and to my chagrin, I have no idea what it is.

 

In a second, I do the daftest thing and voice my question. “What _is_ that?”

I expect Potter to laugh his head off, but he does the strange thing and smiles. “A Walkman. It plays music.”

“Why not just use a magically enhanced gramophone?” it comes out harsh, but I’m genuinely intrigued.

“Do you think we have space for a gramophone in here?” Weasley snorts. “This isn’t a limousine, Malfoy.”

“What’s a limousine?” I ask.

“Never mind,” Potter buts in. “It’s portable and private. That’s why I use it.”

“That does make some sense.”

“Care to listen?” he asks.

I’ve never listened to Muggle music, apart from some junk that Pansy played in the Slytherin common room as a joke in Third Year. I just hope that Potter’s taste is better than hers.

 

It’s a few minutes wait while Potter finishes his song and tries to place the headset on my head without damaging my hair. Finally, he presses a button and the music is delivered straight to my ears, as loud as a sonorous charm. It’s loud, but it’s surprisingly… good?

 

The song has a driving beat that instantly gets stuck in my head, the pulse possessing my feet to tap the rhythm alongside my fingers on the back of Granger’s seat, much to her chagrin. She twitches, before lightly slapping my hand. “Quit it, Malfoy!” the words are harsh, but the tone is playful, unlike our normal encounters. My formerly-broken nose throbs at the memory.

 

Weasley laughs at her annoyance. “Don’t get in the way of ‘Mione when she’s angry,” he raises his eyebrows. “Otherwise…” he lets out a long breath, “...you don’t want to know what happens.”

I bite back a chuckle and point to my nose. “I’ve experienced it first-hand.” Are Weasley and I _bonding_? My third-year self probably would have slapped me silly.

 

“Did that ever heal properly?” Granger asks, turning around in her seat. I turn the Walkman off and hand it back to Potter reluctantly. As flawed as my childhood was, I _was_ taught to engage in conversation correctly.

I touch my nose gingerly. “Not particularly, I think. The whole thing happened when Madam Pomfrey was busy - Snape tried to set it back himself. It still twitches with extreme temperatures, and there’s an almighty lump in the cartilage.”

“Such a Muggle problem,” Granger responds. “Honestly, an _episkey_ should have fixed it completely.”

“A bit typical, if you ask me,” Weasley says. “That was probably the most efficient medical procedure in all our time at Hogwarts.”

We all look into the past for a brief moment.

 

Granger starts. “I could fix it for you, I think. There’s some revolutionary medical spells that I was reading about the other week that work so much better than the old ones... I used them during the aftermath of…” she trails off. We can all complete her sentence. Barely anyone escaped The Battle of Hogwarts with less than a broken bone.

 

My nose twinges again. Maybe it’s not the memory of being broken. Still, after the damage her hands first caused me, I’m a little reluctant to let her treat me. Potter leans over to me. “Honestly, I would suggest it. If she hadn’t chosen to do whatever she’s doing - what are you doing again Hermoine?”

“Magical Law Enforcement,” she pipes in.

“- she would’ve made a great healer.” Potter finishes.

The pain is only increasing. “Alright,” I concede.

 

Granger grips my chin in her little hand, staring into my eyes. “No messing with my girlfriend, alright, Ferret?” Weasley calls from the driver’s seat.

“Don’t worry Weasel,” I sigh.

“This won’t hurt a bit.” Granger flicks her wand up to my nose and murmurs a string of Latin-infused Arabic.

I can feel my nose growing and shifting. It’s odd, but not overly unpleasant. She stops, and smiles.

“Better?”

I scrunch my nose. “Actually, yes.”

 

When we arrive at our destination an hour later, Potter leans over. “You can have the Walkman for part of the journey, if you like. I have other CDs, too.”

I’m surprised. “...Thanks, Potter, but I’m not sure they work during Portkey journeys.”

Weasley laughs as the car stops. “They do work on aeroplanes, though.”

I pale. “I thought we were going via _Portkey_.”

Granger passes paper tickets into my hand. “Air travel is less detectable to our fellow witches and wizards. If we want to be undisturbed on this holiday, it’s best to be discreet.”

She does have a point, but it doesn’t help the bile that rises in my throat.

 

“How long’s the flight ‘Mione?” Potter asks.

“24 hours - with a stopover in Singapore in the middle,” she responds.

Weasley’s eyes nearly pop out of his head. “That’s a whole day! You were saying planes were a little slower. _A little_?!”

Granger shrugs. “Well, I’ve never actually taken a long Portkey journey before. I thought that type of time was standard.”

Potter is already grabbing the luggage. “Probably needed to pack more CDs,” he calls. “Let’s go - we’ve already wasted time with the sapanna incident.”

We climb out of the car and march towards the hulk of a building that is the airport. At least Portkey locations are usually a little more appealing.

 

I stare at the white metal shapes that we will soon be flying in. I try to calm my breathing. For Merlin’s sake, even flying cross-continental on a broomstick would be preferable! Potter sidles up to me as Granger leads us through the airport. “Look, Malfoy, it’s my first flight too… well, in a plane. I’m a bit prone to motion sickness so I’m going to take some of these.” He reveals a metal tin with writing in a foreign language and pictures of various Muggle herbs. “I have an extra tin if you want.” I accept the second tin that he passes to me with only a hint of humiliation.

“Who would’ve known that Gryffindor’s superstar Seeker gets motion sick?” I jab.

“Thanks,” he replies.

“What?”

“You called me a superstar Seeker,” he shrugs.

 

Granger directs us through the boarding process with relative ease. For once in my life, I’m glad of the company of a Muggle-born. We wait at the gate after waiting in at least half a dozen lines, snacking on overpriced Muggle foods and listening to Potter’s walkman. I try not to look out the window at the death traps we are about to board.

 

The time comes and we walk through the tunnel to the plane, whirring and buzzing with the sound of the aeroplane. My nerves light up. We sit down in our seats, Granger, I, then Potter and Weasley. I breathe a sigh of relief. As genial as the Weasel has been so far, I’m not overly keen to be in direct contact for the eight hours our first flight will take. I ingest some of the tablets in the tin Potter gave me - effective in quieting the sickness in my stomach but not the worries in my head.

 

The plane rumbles and shakes, speeding along as my ear canals fill with pressure. “Apparently it’s worse for people with magical blood,” Granger states when she sees me holding my ear. She turns towards me, seeing my shaking hands and pale face. “It’s okay,” she says, and slips her hand into mine. I grip it tightly until we’re above the clouds.


End file.
